


The Weight of Living

by SydneyLouWho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, PTSD, Post-Canon, a bit of a soft epilogue for some of the women in the series, the stark children are healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 21:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18677515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyLouWho/pseuds/SydneyLouWho
Summary: Arya finds that there is hope to be found, even in her ghosts.Post-Canon. A soft, bittersweet epilogue for the women of the war, who have songs sung about them after all.





	The Weight of Living

**Author's Note:**

> I was kind of inspired by Brienne's knighting in the TV show, and what that could mean for future generations of little girls in Westeros. I initially was going to write about that, but the idea morphed and I decided, quite frankly, I didn't really want to write more showverse fic. So I wrote this instead. But I kept the detail of Brienne being the first woman in Westeros to be knighted, because why the hell not, and it's not like GRRM is going to prove me wrong anytime soon.
> 
> As always, huge thanks to Laurel (grumkin_snark on here, samwpmarleau on tumblr) for looking this over before I posted it. You're truly the best.

At every opportunity she finds, Arya likes to ride beyond the walls of Winterfell.

It’s not that she doesn’t love her home. Every day she is grateful to be there, to see Sansa with her two daughters, one of whom resembles Arya so strongly she gets mistaken as her own. To have Bran and Rickon back after so many years of thinking them dead. 

And Jon, who still musses her hair at every opportunity like they are children and tells her he’s making up for all the time they lost.

But Winterfell has ghosts as well. 

Sometimes she looks down at the training yard and can swear she sees Robb, swinging his practice sword and laughing. Robb was always laughing. Or she’ll walk by Mother and Father’s chambers, which have remained untouched since the Starks reclaimed their home, and hear her mother sweet singing and find herself pressing her ear against the door. Or she’ll see Jon from across a room and for a split second mistake his face for her father’s. Jon bears even more resemblance to him now than he did in his youth, especially as he grows ever-nearer to the age Father was when he died.

There are also ghosts in those who survived. 

Sometimes she’ll catch Sansa wearing Mother’s dress as she brushes through her squirming daughter’s curls, trying to recreate a time long gone. She’ll see a haunted, empty look in Bran’s eyes, as though he’s lost in time. Rickon has never grown out of his skittishness and mistrust, and everyone has learned to walk loudly if coming up behind him to avoid startling him. And sometimes Arya will join Jon as he sits sleepless all through the night, staring at a spot on the wall and tracing the scars on his abdomen through his clothes.

All the Starks will wake up screaming most nights, panicked and sweating from some terrible memory playing on their eyelids. More often than not, they’ll all migrate to Jon’s bedchamber at some point in the night and end up piled in his oversized bed, curled into each other while Jon keeps his vigil. Sansa’s ever-patient husband has grown used to waking up alone by now.

The riding helps Arya clear her mind. The ghosts cannot touch her while she races through the woods, her hair whipping in the wind.

She’ll pick a direction and ride until she comes across some village where no one knows her name and she’ll walk through it, greeting its residents and asking to help them if she can. Sometimes it will just be buying fabrics from the women who spin them, or offering food and coin to hungry children. Other times she’ll help women cook, or weave, or repair their houses. Once, she ended up spending an entire day picking turnips in a elderly farmer’s field and had come home aching and sunburnt. He had offered her pay for her labor, but she’d only asked for a basket of turnips and had pressed several gold dragons in his palm, leaving him gaping behind her.

Today, on her way into a new town, she sees a few little girls playing a pretend game in the grass. She smiles, remembering when she and Jon had played as knights, with Sansa as the damsel and Robb her dragon. But she pays the girls little mind as she ties her horse to a tree, until she hears her own name being spoken.

She moves a bit closer to them to hear better, quietly and with her head turned so as not to scare them.

“I want to be Ser Brienne this time. I was Arya Stark  _ last time _ ,” the smallest girl with tangled brown hair whines.

“Well I’m the oldest and biggest,” says a girl with long, copper hair. “Ser Brienne was a fearsome warrior, and big as a giant. A little wisp like you could never slay the dead as she did.”

Arya dares a glance at the group. 

The little one’s face is red as she glares at the older girl. “It isn’t my fault you were born first!” she cries. “I’ll tell Mother how you’re being bossy again!”

The third girl, a blonde, is stifling giggles. “You two can argue over who gets to be Arya and Brienne, but I will  _ always _ be Queen Dany,” she says.

Arya finds herself approaching them. They look up at her with curious eyes, but don’t look afraid. They don’t even give a second glance to her clothes or the sword at her belt. These girls are young enough not to have known a world where women can’t wear breeches or carry a weapon.

“Hello,” Arya says, squatting to be at their level. “What are your names?”

The older girl takes it upon herself to answer for the three of them. “My name is Jeyne. This is Alys,” she says pointing at the blonde beside her. “And this little pest,” she says, gesturing to the little one, “is my sister Nym.”

“Named for the great wolf, leader of Arya Stark’s wolf pack!” she exclaims. Arya suddenly wishes she had brought Nymeria with her, if only to leave the little ones in awe. But she never brings Nymeria on her rides. She loves the feeling of being unknown, and traveling around with a giant wolf at her side would surely give away her identity.

“And she never lets us forget it,” Jeyne grumbles.

Arya only smiles. Sisterhood can be a trial, as she well knows. “I heard you talking about a game you’re playing. War for the Dawn, is it?”

“Yes,” the Jeyne says. “We always play as the women warriors. Mother always tells my sister and me stories about them and sings us their songs. Someday we will be great knights, too.”

“But I hope we never have to fight the dead!” Alys interjects. “I’m brave, but the Others sound so fearsome! I’d rather save a maiden from bad men who are  _ living _ .”

“I would fight the dead!” little Nym insists, indignant. “I’m quick as a fox and would slash them apart faster than they can move their dead old hands to reach me.” She makes a slashing motion in the air.

Arya smiles. “I think the three of you would make fine defenders of the realm, and whatever else you want to become. Girls can do anything these days.”

If only she’d had someone to tell her this as a child, perhaps she wouldn’t have felt like such a misfit. She resolves to return to this village soon and bring the girls proper training swords to use in their games. Gods know there are enough in the armory, and too few children in Winterfell to use them.

“You know,” she says quietly, as if giving away a secret. The girls lean closer in tandem. “I knew Ser Brienne and Queen Daenerys. I fought alongside them in the war.”

The girls gasp, their eyes wide as saucers. “ _ You _ fought the dead?” Alys asks.

“Yes,” Arya says, flashing a grin. “They were as fearsome as you say. If they were freshly dead, when you’d slay them you’d find yourself covered in sticky black blood.” Jeyne gasps. Nym leans closer, her eyes aglow.

“But the Others were most fearsome of them all. Cold and terrible with eyes the color of ice. And just when you were near to finishing the wights,” Arya says, and waits, watching the girls biting their lips and squirming, “they’d swoop in and raise new dead from our fallen armies.” This time, even the littlest looks afraid. 

She does not tell them how sometimes the dead would come back with the faces of those you loved, and you’d have to shove your blade through their ribs anyway. No time for tears, because soon enough another would be upon you.  _ Gendry _ , she thinks, and wants to weep. 

“W—what if they come back?” Alys asks, her voice trembling.

“They never will. We made sure of that.” She remembers the dawn, in all its beauty and terror, as it illuminated the mountains of bodies. She remembers collapsing, half in exhaustion and half in grief.

“What were Queen Daenerys and Ser Brienne like in the war?” the eldest asks, obviously wanting a change in subject.

“Queen Daenerys was beautiful. I remember seeing her fly far above on her great dragon. A dragon black as the night and bigger than your whole village. Her dragon would shoot fire down at all the dead, burning thousands at once, and she looked fierce as a dragon herself holding on to its back.” Arya pauses, wondering how much to tell them. “I got to pet her dragon once.”

“You’re a liar!” Nym cries. “A dragon would burn you to death if you dared touch it!”

Arya smiles. “Not me. The queen allowed it, and thankfully so did the dragon. Its scales were rough, like a lizard’s, but  _ hot _ . I still have burns on my fingers from the heat,” she says, showing them the faded scars on her fingertips.

She considers Ser Brienne. Brienne, the first knighted woman in the realm, is dearer to her than most, and still makes frequent visits to Winterfell to see her and Sansa. There is so much that she could say about her that she almost cannot choose. 

“Ser Brienne was the fiercest warrior I’ve ever known. Big, and so tall she towered over most grown men, and when she swung her Valyrian steel sword she’d slash four wights open at once.”

“Oathkeeper,” one child says, incredulous.

“A beautiful weapon,” Arya says. “Now it belongs to the Starks, as it was forged from their father’s. But Ser Brienne wielded it well. She was stronger than most men. She knocked Ser Jaime Lannister on his golden rump on more than one occasion. She was an honorable woman, too, and kind. The truest knight I’ve ever known, just like from the songs of old. But back then, women who tried to be warriors were mocked instead of loved.” Nym wrinkles her nose.

“You must have been a fierce warrior yourself,” Jeyne says, “to have survived. Were you ever scared?”

“We were all scared, always. Even Queen Daenerys and Ser Brienne. It is one thing to battle men, but entirely another to battle the dead. Only the stupid are brave and fearless. The strong are brave, despite their fear.”

Arya’s horse whinnies behind her and shakes her out of her memories. She looks up at the sky. It must be mid-afternoon now, and she should head back before it gets dark.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your game,” she says to the girls, whose mouths still hang open.

“Wait!” says the smallest child, Nym, lunging forward. “Before you go, did you ever meet Arya Stark?”

Arya grins now, tapping her fingers on Needle’s hilt.

“I  _ am _ Arya Stark,” she says as she twirls on her heel and struts toward her horse, leaving the children gasping behind her.

She’ll go back to her ghosts. They’ll haunt her until the day she dies. But if all her suffering has given hope and choices to little girls like the one she once was, perhaps it is a burden she can bear.


End file.
